by Doug Dollard
Though the report contained some strangely unsettling anomalies ordinarily none of this would have been of interest to MI19. The interviews of a downed German airman would not normally have come to Whitley’s attention except for a single notation near the end of the report.
In a list of items found on the prisoner was a torn sheet of paper with the words Overlord and Southwick House written in blue ink! As none of those who saw the note could fathom its importance the prisoner was never questioned about it. That it appeared at all in the report was remarkable as neither the Home Guard nor Army Intelligence was noted for their thoroughness.
It was impossible Whitley thought, a mistake or at worst a coincidence much like the crossword in the London Times that, however improbable contained the code words for two of the D-Day landing sites, Juno and Omaha.
As he poured over every detail of the transcript he was mystified by the airman’s references to an experiment purportedly conducted at a nonexistent facility in Wilton Park. Thermonuclear fusion of deuterium and tritium in something called a Tokomak sounded fanciful if not a bit ominous.
Despite his inability to decipher their meaning the airman’s statements disturbed Whitley. He made a mental note to refer this portion of the transcript to the Intelligence Service’s science and technology section. Perhaps they would have some insight as to their importance.
When he had finished Whitley read the report again in its entirety several times with careful attention to the transcript of the airman’s statements. There were troubling anomalies of course, in particular the prisoner’s dubious contention he neither spoke nor understood German. His Irish origins and American accent were particularly disturbing.
If the Germans had been successful recruiting Americans of Irish decent it could prove an added danger for the war effort. When he had reread the report for the fourth time he leaned back in his chair, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes.
Other than the note discovered in the prisoner’s clothes the preliminary interviews with him revealed little of consequence other than his apparent disorientation. Reaching for the phone Whitley rang the headquarters for Army Intelligence and ordered the airman’s file be sent over by courier that very afternoon.
Recalling his intention to send a summary of the prisoner’s statements on to the Secret Intelligence Service’s science section Whitley rang his batman, Corporal Wilcox. Whitley had no intention of sending off the entire file. There was an unfortunate degree of rivalry among the various sections of the SIS that all to often resulted in regressive internecine disputes.
Before sending the file on he carefully culled the report, removing transcripts of the prisoner’s statements as well as any reference to the cryptic note the Airman carried in his pocket.
When Wilcox arrived he directed him to include the report in the daily courier pouch destined for SIS headquarters at Bletchley Park. With that done Whitley suddenly realized just how weary he had grown. Managing the pain in his leg often left him sleepless, sapping his energy. Using his left hand to ease himself up from his chair he retrieved his favorite walking stick from the umbrella stand near his desk.
His office was on the third floor in one of the larger rooms in an old Georgian Palladian mansion dubbed the “White House” because of its striking white plaster exterior. Seven bays wide and three floors high it served as the Headquarters for the Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Center located in Wilton Park near Beaconsfield northwest of London.
Leaning heavily on a hand carved ebony walking stick Whitley hobbled nervously about the room, checking his watch every few minutes as he waited impatiently for news of the courier’s arrival. Forty minutes passed before a Lieutenant from Army Intelligence phoned confirming the prisoner’s affects were in route.
An hour later a motorcycle courier arrived outside of headquarters with a cardboard box bound with packaging twine and marked “Hand Deliver Only” printed in capital letters across the top. Signing hurriedly for the package he brought it to his office, closing and securing the door behind him. The package was the size of a small suitcase and quite light.
Setting the box on his desk Whitley retrieved a letter opener from the top drawer of his desk and cut the twine, opened the flaps and began hurriedly retrieving the contents an item at a time. On top was a single sheet of typed paper listing the contents. Whitley withdrew a torn pair of men’s suit pants soiled with mud and dried blood, a single black shoe, what was once a white shirt dark with mud and a considerable amount of blood, two pair of men’s socks and a pair of men’s underwear in the same condition. At the bottom of the box was a brown envelope with the matching file number written across the front.
With a vigor sown of his foreboding he examined the downed airman’s clothes in great detail. The fabrics were unfamiliar as were the labels. The high quality of craftsmanship and the materials used confirmed they were tailored especially for the prisoner and of superior quality. It was puzzling as these would not be typical of a German agent as they would only serve to draw attention rather than assist him in blending in. It was as much as he could learn from such a precursory examination. He would have the German’s clothing examined by his people in the technical and sciences section for any additional clues they might provide.
Whitley now turned his attention to the brown envelope. The envelope was sealed and Whitley tore it open using the same letter opener he had used to cut the twine. Inside he found a single sheet of high quality stationery. The paper was of thick stock, probably containing a fair amount of cotton and likely very expensive. It had been folded twice probably to fit in the airman’s pocket.
His fingers trembling Whitley opened it and was shocked to see not just the single word Southwick House but instead three words hand written in blue ink. Directly above the word Southwick House appeared the words Overlord. Whitley sank back in his chair. This was worse than he had imagined. Southwick House had only recently been selected as the location for General Eisenhower’s headquarters leading up to the landings in France scheduled for early May. Overlord was the code name given for the invasion of Europe. For the second time that day he was consumed by fear.
With a growing sense of foreboding Whitley reached for the phone on his desk and placed a call he had prayed he would never have to make.
Chapter 23
NUMBER 10 DOWNING STREET
London, United Kingdom
Ensconced in his study Winston Churchill paced impatiently in front of his desk, great clouds of blue smoke curling up from his favorite La Aroma de Cuba cigar, a tumbler containing a weak mixture of whisky and soda sloshing about in his left hand. Burn holes from carelessly dropped clumps of ash peppered his carpet and vest.
As was his habit the Prime Minister had been up since eight and would not retire until three or four the following morning. At sixty-nine he seemed to thrive on as little as four or five hours sleep a day.
Having been drawn from his usual routine of spending the morning in bed reading newspapers and reports, writing memoranda and dictating letters to various military leaders and heads of state his mood was far from mellow. What had drawn his ire that morning was an edited SIS report referencing a statement made by a captured German airman regarding an experiment in thermonuclear fusion. If the summary correctly reflected the actual transcripts then the implications could prove disastrous.
The Manhattan project was costing the Americans billions with no guarantee of success, but if the Germans were pursuing a weapon along similar lines it would become a race that could determine the very outcome of the war. Not even Overlord was as important.
Ultra, the deciphered operational traffic gleaned from intercepted German radio transmissions gave no hint of German advances in nuclear research. Never the less there were rumors the Japanese were working on a super bomb and hints the Germans had developed secret weapons with which they would win the war. It was all poppycock meant to bolster the flagging morale of the Japanese and German nations but
troubling all the same.
As he paced back and forth, absorbed in thought a large clump of ash fell from his cigar onto his vest, burning a small hole in the material. Absently he brushed it away with the back of his hand. It would become another of several similar holes the Prime Minister would choose to ignore. Setting his half empty tumbler of whisky and water on the edge of his desk Churchill picked up his phone and rang the head of SIS, Sir Harold Mansfield on a secure line.
Inured to the erratic timing of the Prime Minister’s calls that could as easily occur at three in the morning as three in the afternoon Mansfield came directly on the line. At sixty-two, Lieutenant Colonel Harold Mansfield was accustomed to tides of political fortune. Avuncular, jovial and soft-spoken he was the least likely to have been appointed to head the clandestine Secret Intelligence Service.
Given his charge Mansfield knew his authority was near absolute within the parameters of his mandate. The Prisoner of War Intelligence Service was tasked with managing the detention and interrogation of captured German SS and Gestapo officers. As his methods for extracting information were often as brutal as those of his captives, members of the British Cabinet and the War Office elected to keep blissfully ignorant of his activities.
Any interference with the PWIS would constitute an admission one knew what transpired within the walls of the nine area cages. This left Mansfield the unchallenged authority few other officers in the British military services enjoyed.
“I am reading a report on which I want you to take immediate action,” the Prime Minister nearly roared into the receiver by way of introduction. Ever prepared the SIS director held the receiver a few inches away from his ear.
“May I inquire the identity of the report you’re referencing Prime Minister?” Mansfield asked.
Without waiting for a reply Mansfield signaled his secretary to retrieve an index of all the classified communications sent to the Office of the Prime Minister during the past twenty-four hours. There was a pause while Churchill, his cigar having died subjected it to the flame of a candle he kept perpetually burning for just this purpose. The third of more than a dozen cigars he would smoke that day he held the flame just beyond the tip until it glowed a bright cherry red.
In a haze of thick smoke Churchill returned his attention his patient head of the Secret Intelligence Service.
“We may have underestimated the Germans,” he groused, ignoring Mansfield’s question. “I need to know if there is any substance to this report. This German airman, find out what you can about him but most importantly I want more details on these experiments he claims to have observed. Timing is critical. Do whatever is necessary to resolve this. I want daily reports.”
With that the Prime Minister rang off leaving Mansfield to ponder the reasons behind Churchill’s demand for urgency.
Having received the list of classified communications requested he quickly identified a report of a German airman shot down over Beaconsfield four days ago. Puzzled this would have met the criteria of importance necessary to be routed to the Prime Minister’s attention Mansfield ordered the file sent to his attention. Half an hour later he was informed there was no report, only a summary made available to the SIS science section. Further investigation revealed the report had originated with Army Intelligence, the normal procedure for captured German prisoners of war. This in turn had been sent on to MI19 with a recommendation for further action as was protocol.
Here, apparently the report was summarized and sent to the SIS technology section where someone thought it important enough to include in the Prime Minister’s daily briefing report.
Mansfield frowned. He knew the Americans were engaged in a highly secretive effort to produce an entirely new weapon of great destructive power. Churchill’s involvement could only mean the Prime Minister believed there was a credible threat the Germans were moving in a parallel direction.
The SIS was already in the embarrassing position of having missed this potential threat. Careers were destroyed over far less. The prisoner would soon be in the custody of the Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Service in Wilton Park. Wing Commander Sir James Whitley had recently been assigned this post after suffering debilitating air combat wounds.
He knew Sir James to be a competent and loyal officer more than capable of determining the intelligence value of the prisoner. The commander’s process relied on finesse and would take time. Time the prime minister would be unlikely to permit. This was not his concern however. His fear was the impression this would make with the Prime Minister should Sir James glean anything of importance.
Mansfield contemplated ordering the prisoner’s immediate transfer to SIS control and imprisonment at the London Cage. He quickly reconsidered however, deciding it was safer to allow Sir James to retain custody for the moment at least. If things began to go awry he would have the CSDIC to blame. And if Commander Whitley appeared to be gaining ground he could always step in to claim the prisoner and whatever credit might ensue.
Deciding he would keep a tight rein on it and allow events to unfold as planned. Just to be certain things transpired properly however, he ordered his aide de camp to locate his most trusted and productive interrogator, Major Walter Chandler. If necessary Chandler could secure results from recalcitrant prisoners virtually overnight. His methods might have been brutal but they were effective.
Chapter 24
THE MANHATTAN PROJET
It was past midnight before Whitley finally noticed the time. He had been so absorbed in formulating a strategy for dealing with the airman he barely noticed the passage of time. The unexpected jangle of his phone startled him, breaking his concentration.
“Wing Commander Whitley,” he answered brusquely.
“Andras Chandler here,” stated the voice at the other end of the line. “Wing Commander, I’m with the Inter-Service Research Bureau. I’d like to talk with you about a report you filed with the SIS detailing an interview with a German POW.”
Whitley was immediately alert, avoiding the impulse to inquire how a report filed with the Secret Intelligence Service ended up in the hands of an innocuous bureaucrat. Given his report had only been sent over that afternoon it was extraordinary it had garnered the attention of the SIS so quickly.
Whitley knew well the Inter-Service Research Bureau was no more than a cover name for the MI6, one of many departments of the Secret Intelligence Service. As with most government departments they were ostensibly working together albeit on different tasks. In practice they were very much at odds, vying for advantage, power and recognition.
“May I ask your interest in this report Mister Chandler?” Whitley inquired.
“I’d rather not elaborate on the phone Wing Commander.” For the briefest of moments Whitley considered declining but quickly thought better of it. Instead he asked, “Can you meet tomorrow morning here at Wilton Park?” There was a slight pause at the other end of the line as if Chandler were conversing with someone close by.
“I was thinking we could meet here in about an hour here at our headquarters, Wing Commander. I have taken the liberty of sending a car to collect you. It should be outside waiting for you momentarily.” It wasn’t a request Whitley realized, and it must be damn important for an organization that did not officially exist to move this quickly.
Having little choice Whitley agreed and rang off, troubled but intrigued by the sudden interest the SIS had taken in a downed German POW.
By the time Whitley had made his way downstairs a late model American made Oldsmobile was waiting for him. Glancing at his watch he noted it was just past zero one hundred hours. Two men dressed in suits got out and stood beside the car as he approached. One of them held the rear door open while Whitley struggled into the back seat. The two men took their positions in the front seat and they sped off in the direction of London.
Four years ago during the height of the blitz the SIS had relocated its headquarters from London to Bletchley Park in Buckinghamshire west of the city. Whit
ley decided it would be fruitless to inquire their destination and simply eased back in his seat to enjoy the few precious minutes of idleness. There was no conversation during the long drive and Whitley desired none.
Fifty-five minutes later the Oldsmobile pulled up in front of a five story brick building on Baker Street where again the two men exited the car, holding open the door for him.
“Third floor,” the man holding the door instructed him. Leaning heavily on his cane Whitley made his way into the building and into the lift. Just inside he found an unattended reception desk and a series of mail slots typical of London office buildings. There were no guards or visible sign this was the headquarters of one of the most clandestine of the British secret services.
Taking the lift up to the third floor Whitley again found nothing to suggest the offices were staffed at this late hour. While he was pondering which of the many offices that lined either side of the hallway he would first attempt a stocky man dressed in a brown, double-breasted suit exited the door on his left and approached him.
From a distance the man’s shock of red hair stood out as his most distinguishing feature. As he drew near Whitley noted the man was quite broad at the shoulders, thick in the chest with short but thickly muscled arms.
“Mister Whitley?” he said, addressing the Wing Commander who was in full uniform with civil but atypical decorum. “I am Walter Chandler,” he introduced himself, offering Whitley his hand.
As the Wing commander took the extended hand he noted Chandler’s hand was bruised and swollen, his knuckles covered with recent cuts and old scar tissue. Whitley surmised Chandler was a man of impatient temperament prone to employ himself physically when confronted with obstacles.
